


Mea Culpa

by being_alive



Category: Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types, Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare, Romeo e Giulietta - Ama e Cambia il Mondo, Romeo et Juliette - Presgurvic
Genre: F/M, I'm so sorry, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Older Man/Younger Woman, POV Second Person, Religious Conflict, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Self-Flagellation, inappropriate religious references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-09-17 02:42:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16966182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/being_alive/pseuds/being_alive
Summary: His fingers rest on your chin as he finally places the host upon your tongue, and when he moves his hand back, away from you, you find yourself missing his touch. You close your mouth, feeling the weight of the host on your tongue, and then you swallow it. You know you shouldn't, that's wrong for you to do so, but still you let your tongue glance along your bottom lip after you swallow."The body of Christ," he says, falteringly, after a brief moment."Amen," you say, softly, and stand. You keep your gaze on Friar Lawrence, and you swear you can see a faint pink tint to his cheeks and the tips of his ears.





	Mea Culpa

**Author's Note:**

> This...this is something else and I never thought I'd actually write it, but yet here I am and I'm sorry.

You walk into the study, wondering what it is that Lady Montague wants to speak with you, Roméo, and Benvolio about. The servant that had come to fetch you had simply told you that she had news to tell you, and that Roméo and Benvolio were summoned as well. Lady Montague is sitting at her desk, with Roméo sitting in a chair across from her and Benvolio standing beside him.

"I'm sorry I'm late, aunt," you tell her, going to stand beside Benvolio.

"You're here now and that's all that matters," she says, smiling, before briefly pausing and then continuing, "I have news to share with you."

"So the servant told us," Roméo says. His mother glances at him sharply, and he throws his hands up in surrender.

"So, what's the news?" Benvolio asks, stepping slightly forward in interest.

"Friar Philip's replacement has finally arrived," she says and you blink in surprise. It's been weeks since the old Friar who resided in the chapel on Montague property died and you'd been beginning to think the Montagues would be stuck going into the city for mass like they once did, before Lady Montague had injured her leg and started walking with a cane. You much prefer being able to attend mass here, because it's easier for your aunt and because there's no chance of seeing any Capulets here, so you're glad that the new Friar has finally arrived.

"That's wonderful news," you say with a smile. Benvolio and Roméo both nod in agreement before Roméo asks, "So, what's his name?"

"Friar Lawrence," Lady Montague states, before looking sternly from Roméo to Benvolio to you as she continues, "I want the three of you, as my closest relatives, to go down there and welcome him."

"We will," you tell her, and Roméo and Benvolio nod in turn.

"Well, go on, then," she says with a wave of her hand. Roméo stands up and the three of you walk towards the door.

"And be sure to be on best behavior with him," Lady Montague calls after you. Benvolio nods and then the three of you walk out of the study and down the hall. You're all silent as you walk down the hallway and then down the stairs to the first floor and then start down the flight of stairs leading to the courtyard.

"How long do you think he'll stay?" You ask, breaking the silence, following Roméo down the stairs, with Benvolio following behind you. Roméo shrugs and replies, "It could be weeks or months days. However long he wishes to stay, I suppose, or until someone comes to replace him."

From behind you, Benvolio says, "I just hope he's not as old as Friar Philip was, so that we won't have to worry about him dying so soon after arriving."

"He'll probably still be old, though," you say, because from what you've seen of Friars and Priests and Bishops and other assorted holy men, the ones that weren't granted their positions through their relations are always older, if not completely old. Benvolio makes a sound of agreement and then the three of you are at the bottom of the stairs and then outside in the sunlight of the courtyard. The three of you move so that you're all walking side-by-side and and walk across the courtyard and to the chapel.

Roméo pushes open the door to chapel and the three of you walk inside, looking around. Not much has changed since Friar Philip died, and there's no sight of this new Friar Lawrence either.

"Hello?" Roméo calls out, and a man that you can only assume to be Friar Lawrence by the robes he's wearing and the crucifix around his neck emerges from one of the back rooms. This Friar Lawrence is younger than you'd expected, much younger, and more handsome than a man of god has any right to be. You blink several times, simply looking at him, in surprise. His grey gaze darts nervously from Roméo to Benvolio and then to you. On you, his gaze lingers for several long moments before he looks away.

"You must be Friar Lawrence," Roméo says, smiling widely at the older man.

"Yes," the Friar replies, simply.

"My name is Roméo Montague. These are my cousins," Roméo explains. Benvolio tells him his name and you provide yours as well.

"Of course," Friar Lawrence says with a nod. "Lady Montague's son, and her nephew and niece."

"I'm assuming she told you that we'd be down here at some point," Benvolio says and the Friar nods again.

"So, what brings you to Verona?" Roméo asks.

"You, you, and you," he says, pointing at each of you in turn, "And every other Montague."

"Why us?" Roméo questions, staring at the Friar in confusion. Even Benvolio looks surprised.

"Because hate is a sin," you say after a moment, your gaze meeting Friar Lawrence's grey one. He smiles at you and nods before saying, "Correct. Because of your infamous feud with the Capulets and the hatred you feel for one another."

Benvolio laughs then, causing both you and Roméo to look at him in surprise. After he finishes laughing, he says, "Forgive me, Friar, but if ending the hatred in Verona is your goal, then you should've started with the Capulets. They, and Tybalt especially, hate us far more than we hate them."

"Perhaps so," the Friar concedes. "But it was Lady Montague who had need of a Friar, and not Lady Capulet."

"And we thank you for coming," you say, quickly. 

"Yes, we do," Roméo says as well. Benvolio nods, looking apologetic. After a moment, Roméo says, "Well, I suppose we had better go. I'm sure you have better things to do other than waste your time with us, Friar."

"Welcome to Verona," Benvolio says, and follows Roméo out. You follow after them and then pause in the doorway before turning back to Friar Lawrence in order to say, "See you on Sunday, Friar."

"Until then," the Friar says, his grey gaze boring into yours. You smile at him and then turn to leave, your heart beating an odd pattern in your chest.

Sunday seems to come more slowly than it normally does, or perhaps that's just because you find yourself looking forward to getting to see this new Friar once more. You know it's wrong of you to favor him over the old Friar and to be excited about mass for reasons other than the word of God, but you can't help yourself. Once Sunday finally arrives, you get to the chapel much earlier than you normally do. Normally, you, Benvolio, and Roméo wait until many of the other Montagues arrive to make your entrance, but today you're early, so early that only you, Lady Montague, and a scattered few of your other cousins are there. You speak to your cousins for a little while, then return to your pew, where you find Friar Lawrence speaking with your aunt.

You sit down at the end of the pew, where you always sit, glancing up at Friar Lawrence from time to time. As more people start to come into the chapel, he and Lady Montague finish speaking.

"Good morning," he tells you as he passes by you on his way up to the altar. 

"Good morning," you reply, wondering if he even heard your response. Benvolio and Roméo show up mere minutes before the Friar begins mass, and settle in beside you as Lady Montague fixes them with a stern glare. Benvolio, at least, has the grace to look apologetic, and then the Friar is beginning mass.

Mass goes on much as it always does, though you do find yourself to be much more attentive than you were with the old Friar, your gaze following every movement Friar Lawrence makes, no matter how slight it is. At least until it's time to hold communion and you find butterflies fluttering wildly in your stomach as the thought of what communion entails, and the fact that you're always fourth in line to receive communion.

Lady Montague kneels in front of the Friar to the best of her ability and finishes soon enough and then there's only Benvolio in front of you and Roméo in front of him. Nervousness twists your stomach, a nervousness you've never felt while doing this before. The old Friar was an old man, grandfatherly and at least twice your aunt's age, so there was no reason to be nervous around him for any reason at all. Now, with Friar Lawrence, your mind can't help but go to other situations where you'd be kneeling in front of him, where you'd also have your mouth open but receiving something wholly different from communion, and...you don't let yourself finish that thought because not only are you in a chapel but now there's only Benvolio in front of you. 

Benvolio stands, and you kneel before Friar Lawrence, your face burning and your mind full of sinful thoughts. You open your mouth just wide enough and stick your tongue out just slightly enough for him to place the host on your tongue, but it's a few long moments before he does so. You look up at him, your eyes meeting his grey ones, and you swear that his eyes were lighter in color the first time you saw him. You wonder if he's thinking the same things you are, so you open your mouth just a little wider, never letting your gaze waver from his. His hand shakes just slightly as he takes the host from the goblet and brings it towards you. 

His fingers rest on your chin as he finally places the host upon your tongue, and when he moves his hand back, away from you, you find yourself missing his touch. You close your mouth, feeling the weight of the host on your tongue, and then you swallow it. You know you shouldn't, that's wrong for you to do so, but still you let your tongue glance along your bottom lip after you swallow.

"The body of Christ," he says, falteringly, after a brief moment.

"Amen," you say, softly, and stand. You keep your gaze on Friar Lawrence, and you swear you can see a faint pink tint to his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

You return to your seat beside Benvolio, your stomach twisting itself into knots as you mentally berate yourself for what you did. You kneel there, lost in thought, as everyone else receives communion and only return to reality once Friar Lawrence begins the post-Communion prayer. You're quick to join in once you realize what's going on and then after that's over, you listen as the mass is concluded. The moment Friar Lawrence finishes speaking, some of the people begin to stand up and leave. 

You remain seated, waiting for Lady Montague and Roméo and Benvolio to stand up as well. Lady Montague and Roméo rise together, with you and Benvolio quick to follow. She and Roméo walk out ahead of you and Benvolio as she lectures Roméo about the importance of punctuality, while Benvolio waits for you.

As you leave, you glance back at Friar Lawrence, only to find him studying you with a peculiar expression on his face. You quickly look away, cheeks burning, and follow Benvolio outside, only to stop when you realize that the laces on one of your boots have come undone. You sigh, loudly enough that Benvolio looks back to see what's wrong. You gesture towards your boot and he nods in understanding.

"Go on, I'll be right behind you," you tell Benvolio.

"Are you sure? I don't mind waiting," he says, shifting from one foot to another.

"I'm sure," you tell him, waving your hand to emphasize your point. He smiles, shaking his head, and then turns and dashes to catch up with Roméo. You kneel and take your laces in hand and re-tie your boot, before standing up and finding that your other boot is now too loose around the ankle, so you kneel and redo that one again. 

When you finish with that boot and stand up, you notice that there are no other Montagues in sight besides yourself. You turn, glancing back towards the chapel, and that's when you notice the window on the wall of the chapel. There's no harm in just looking, you tell yourself, since he might not even be in there anymore, and peer inside the chapel window.

Inside, Friar Lawrence is kneeling in front of the altar, his robes stripped to his waist, hands clasped in supplication. From this angle, you can't see much of his face, except for the fact that his lips are moving. He stands up, and you duck so that there's no chance of him seeing you, but you don't leave. You don't want to leave just yet, especially not now that he's half bare. When you dare look back inside, the Friar is back on his knees in the same spot as before. The only difference is that his hands now hold his belt. As you watch, transfixed, he begins to strike himself, over the shoulders and under the arms.

The sight before both horrifies and excites you. You're horrified because you don't know what reason the Friar could possibly have to do this, what sins he could possibly have to repent for so soon after holding mass.

Lust, a small voice in your head tells you, because of you and what you did during communion. It's a mad fancy, a delusion on your part, surely, that a grown man, a holy man, would be driven to mortification of the flesh from the simple sight of a girl licking her lips. But yet, here he is, striking himself with the belt, drawing welts of red on the pale skin of his back, a groan-interspersed prayer falling from his lips. 

You want to kiss each welt, you think to yourself, that excitement within you growing every time the belt makes contact with his skin and with every groan that falls from his lips, and you want him to stop because he's hit himself at least fifteen times now. Five more lashes and then he falls forward with a cry, his whole body shaking as he braces himself on his forearms. His back is more painful red than it is pale now, and the sight sends a twisting feeling through your stomach. 

You leave then, no matter how much you want to stay, pulling up your skirts to run faster, dashing through the expands of the courtyard and then up the stairs, until you reach your bedroom. You throw yourself on the bed, burying your face in your pillow, desire and guilt and pity and longing all twisting their ways through you. You don't know how you're going to be able to pay attention in mass from now on, or what you're going to do about the memories of him that won't stop playing through your head, but you know there's no going back from now for you.

Soon after that Sunday, Roméo and Benvolio start spending more time with Mercutio and less with you, something you can't fault them for because there's no doubt that the nephew of the Prince is more interesting than the cousin they've known all their lives. Besides, you're almost glad, because it means you can linger around the chapel for longer, without worrying about having one of them waiting on you.

However, in the next two weeks, no matter how much you go down at odd hours during the day or when you linger around the chapel after Sunday mass, you don't chance to see Friar Lawrence doing _that_ again, or at least until you decide to do something different one particularly sunny Sunday morning. Prior to this day, you've been sure to be on your best behavior whenever you're around him out of lingering guilt and religious fear, but now your desperation to see something other than the Friar sweeping the floor overtakes any of that. You don't know why you feel this way about him. You've never felt this way about anyone before because while you've had small crushes on boys before, there was no trace of this desperation in those.

Perhaps it's the forbidden nature of it, or perhaps you just don't get out enough. The only man you see on a regular basis that you're not related to other than the Friar is Mercutio and Mercutio is, well, Mercutio. With a sigh, you open up your wardrobe and pull out a dress at random. You change out of your nightgown and into the dress before looking in the mirror.

Once you do so, you instantly notice that the neckline is perhaps a bit too low for mass, but your musings have put you too far behind to change. And besides, you think as you dash out of your bedroom and down the hallway and then both flights of stairs, maybe the neckline of the dress will be an advantage for you. If he looks, you'll know for sure that your attraction is returned to some degree. You rush through the courtyard and then to the chapel, hoping that you're not too terribly late. Luckily for you, Friar Lawrence has yet to begin mass, and even luckier yet, his gaze lingers on you for a few seconds longer than proper for a normal man to look and much too many seconds longer than proper for a holy man to look as you walk to your normal pew, where your aunt and cousins are already sitting.

You sit in the pew, in the spot you always sit at, at the end of the row, beside Benvolio, watching and listening as Friar Lawrence begins mass, and that's when you have an epiphany that, all things considered, you should've realized much sooner, an epiphany for exactly how you can spend more time around Friar Lawrence in a way that doesn't involve you peering in through his window and hoping he doesn't see you. 

Confession. 

In truth, it's probably been an overly long time since you last confessed your sins, since the Saturday before the old Friar died, so either way you benefit in some way from this. You allow yourself a small smile, and resolve to ask Friar Lawrence about it after mass. Mass goes on much the same as it always does, and before you know it it's time for communion. Your heart beats fast in your chest as your aunt and Benvolio and Roméo receive communion and then it's your turn to kneel in front of the Friar.

He looks down at you and you look up at him, noticing that something in his grey gaze has changed. Your neckline, you remember, heat rushing to your cheeks. His gaze goes back to your face after a moment too long, and you quickly open your mouth to receive the host, pretending as if you hadn't noticed where his gaze had fallen. His hand shakes just slightly as he places the host upon your tongue and you just as quickly close your mouth afterwards. 

"The body of Christ," Friar Lawrence says, his inflection wavering on the word body. You let the host dissolve at least partially before you swallow it and say, "Amen."

You return to your seat and kneel there, closing your eyes and mentally praying for forgiveness for what you're about to do, and then once you finish your prayer, you let yourself wonder just how you're going to go about doing this.

Politely, and if need be, pleadingly, you finally decide, opening your eyes just as the last person receives communion. You watch Friar Lawrence as he says the prayer and then concludes mass. People start to leave, but you stay behind, even waving Benvolio ahead so that he won't wait for you. Slowly but surely, everyone leaves and then it's just you and Friar Lawrence, alone together for the first time, not counting the times you're watched him from a distance. Unable to feel anything but just a little bit awkward and nervous, you walk over to him and he looks down at you.

"Do you take confessions, Friar?" You ask, looking up at him with pleading eyes. You can see his Adam's Apple move in his throat as he swallows before replying, "I do."

"Oh, what a relief," you say, letting your pleading gaze give way to a smile as you continue, "I have a few things that have been weighing heavily upon my mind that I would like to confess to."

"Of course," he says. "If you'd like, we can hold confession now."

"That'd be wonderful," you say, still smiling.

"You'll have to forgive the fact that this chapel lacks a confessional," he says, walking away from you in order to pull a chair up in front of one of the pews.

"That's fine," you say, smiling reassuringly, even as you mentally wonder how you're supposed to be able confess to anything without the privacy of the screen, especially how you're going to be able to confess to wanting him while looking him in the eyes. It was different with the old Friar, because the sins you'd confessed to him were minor, petty things and nothing like this. You walk and sit at the pew, and Friar Lawrence sits in the chair across from you, close enough that your knees are mere inches away from his. Your eyes meet his and he nods, silently letting you know you can start confessing.

"Bless me, for I have sinned," you begin, and then pause.

You're not going to confess to lust, or at least not this time, not until you've gotten a chance to get to know him at least a bit better, you decide. But even so, there are things that you've done, more minor things, that you know count as sins.

"Envy," you say. "I've committed the sin of envy. One of my cousins has nicer boots than I do and I am envious of her for them."

You pause for a moment while Friar Lawrence nods, and then continue, "Anger towards the Montagues, and also hatred."

"I see," he says, thrumming his fingers against his thigh before telling you what you need to say in order to be penitent. You say the words, exactly and devoutly, and then Friar Lawrence says, "I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."

"Thank you," you say, and stand.

"Will I see you next Saturday?" The Friar asks, and your heart skips a beat before you say, "At noon."

You go to the chapel every week, sitting across from Friar Lawrence and as weeks turn to months, you confess to sins ranging from envy to anger to theft to more, to everything but your worst one. You get to know him as well during this time, the little things like how he thrums his fingers on his thigh when he's thinking and the sound of his laughter and the way his eyes light up when he smiles and the way he sometimes hums hymns to himself, and bigger things as well, like how he was born in a small village in the south before making his way up to Rome and then eventually Verona and how he's the middle child of five children and how he didn't even think of becoming a holy man until his early teen years when a Friar had traveled to his village and inspired him to become one as well.

You enjoy learning all of these things about him, both big and small, but at the same time it makes you realize that you want him, more than as a Friar or friend, more than just physically as a lover. You want things from him that you know he can't give you, but you refuse to admit to yourself that your feelings come anywhere close to love. It's the Friday before your next confession when you realize that you can't keep this, your lust and your feelings, romantic and otherwise, a secret anymore, or at least not for very much longer.

As you're walking to the chapel a little before noon the next day, you resolve that today will be the day you finally tell him, the day you finally confess to your greatest sin. You pause outside the door, wondering just how you're going to be able to do this, before deciding that it's now or never and pushing the door open. When you walk into the chapel, Friar Lawrence has already pulled a chair up to in front of your normal pew, though he himself is nowhere to be seen. 

You sit down and look around for any sign of him before calling out, "Friar Lawrence?"

"I'm here," he says, walking out of one of the back rooms. You smile at the sight of him. When he sits across from you, he's close enough to you that your knees touch his, close enough for you to notice that his hair is damp as if he'd just finished washing his face.

"Welcome," he says, the slightest of smiles playing at his lips before he continues by speaking the words that begin confession.

"I must confess that I have found myself stirred by lust for some time now," you begin a moment after he finishes, hesitantly, pausing before continuing, "But I have been too ashamed of my feelings to say anything until now."

You look up at him when he doesn't say anything right away. His grey eyes meet yours and you can see his Adam's Apple bob in his throat before he says, "God does not judge, and neither do I."

"But even so, I find myself not only ashamed because of the sin in and of itself, but also because of who the object of my feelings happens to be," you reply, your fingers tightening on your skirt in nervousness because of what you know you must say, what you must admit to. You take a deep breath and exhale before continuing, "The person I find myself having these debauched feelings for is a holy man. A Friar."

For the most part, he just looks discomfited by your admission, but there's something there that you can see, something in his grey gaze, something of a flicker of recognition and realization, that urges you to say, "That holy man is you, Friar Lawrence."

Friar Lawrence makes a choked, sort of gasping noise and then you press your lips to his. For just a second, he loses himself and returns the kiss, before jerking back so suddenly that the legs of his chair make an odd screeching sound.

"What are you doing?" He asks, his voice rougher than you've ever heard it before, desire and disgust displayed equal parts even as panic alights in his eyes.

"Kissing you," you reply, simply, with a small shrug.

"You shouldn't do that," he says, his pupils blown wide as he looks at you. " _I_ shouldn't do that."

"Even angels fall," you say, and press your lips to his once more. He stiffens under your touch, so much so that you feel as if you may as well be kissing a statue, so you pull away and look at him. There's an unreadable emotion in his eyes as he simply looks at you, studies you, and then says, "Get out."

"Friar Lawrence," you begin.

"Get out," he repeats, louder this time before he shouts, "Get out!"

You do so, years burning in your eyes as you scramble to your feet and dash outside the chapel, across the courtyard, and then up the stairs. You wrench open the door to your room and slam it behind you before collapsing on your bed as sobs wrack your body. You don't know why you expected what you did to have gone any differently, but the rejection still hurts and the embarrassment still stings. You don't want to see anyone or to have to interact with anyone, not after this, so you stay in your bedroom, and eventually the sky darkens outside your window and you get up and begin to get ready for bed.

You've just finished getting ready for bed, having already changed into a nightgown and are about to draw back the covers on your bed when there's a frantic knocking on your bedroom door. You sigh, sure that it's one of your cousins asking for a favor or something of the like, only to walk over to the door and open it to the sight of a disheveled Friar Lawrence. There's stubble on his jaw and his robes look as if they were hastily pulled on, his belt looped loosely around his waist. Your stomach does a curious little flip as you look at him, as his wild grey gaze meets yours. To say you're surprised to see him is an understatement. 

Surely this is a dream, you think, because you know there's really no way he could be here right now, not after earlier.

"Damn you," he spits out at you, "Damn you and all your temptations to hell."

And then he's kissing you, frenziedly and desperately. You wrap your arms around him, pressing him closer against you, feeling a sticky wetness seeping through the coarsely-woven fabric of his robes and a hardness against your stomach. He rests one hand on the small of your back while the other clutches at your nightgown. You walk backwards just far enough that you're both inside your bedroom and the door swings shut.

You pull back, breaking this kiss, and look at him, wiping your hands off on your skirt before reaching up to cup his face as you begin, "Friar Lawrence-"

He cuts you off with another kiss, this one even more desperate than the first, his hands clutching tightly at your hips, bunching up the skirt of your nightgown. You wrap your arms around his neck and press yourself even closer to him, as close to him as you can because you're still not wholly convinced this isn't a dream, even in spite of the hard press of his lips against yours and the hard press of something else against a different part of you. You can feel him groan against your mouth, his fingers tightening on your hips as you move against him. You wonder if he'll leave bruises on you, and almost hope that he does, because then you'll know for sure that this isn't a dream. He moans again and your mind is pulled from the topic of bruises onto something different.

There's an uncanny similarity between the words fellate and flagellate, you think, pulling back and looking at him, and you wonder if you'd enjoy performing the former as much as you enjoy watching him perform the latter.

There's only one way to find out, you suppose, before you kneel before him, undoing his belt and then pushing his robes up and pulling what's under them down until he's revealed to you. You glance up, your eyes meeting his, taking in the darkness that has overtaken the grey of his eyes. He nods, just slightly, but it's enough confirmation for you. You maintain this eye contact even as you take him into your mouth, even as _mea culpa_ falls from his lips.

After, you almost expect for him to leave immediately, but instead you and he lie down on your bed together. You bury your face in his chest while he strokes your hair with a shaking hand. In this moment, he's not a Friar and you're not a Montague, simply a man and a woman embracing one another. There's an ache between your legs that longs for fulfillment, but you ignore it because for now, this is enough. 

You're satisfied, even if your body isn't, because now you know your feelings have some level of requite. Despite your satisfaction, you can't help but to feel guilty, because of not only your own sins but also of your enticement of a holy man to sin as well. You pull back from him just far enough to look up at him, and find him already looking at you with an unreadable expression in his grey eyes.

"I should go," he says after a moment. Your stomach sinks as you reply, "All right."

Friar Lawrence disentangles himself from you and stands and walks towards your bedroom door, slowly, as if on uncertain legs.

He pauses just before your door and turns around, his gaze meeting yours as he says, "I'll see you this Saturday."

"Until then," you say, smiling up at him, your guilt overtaken by joy and nearly forgotten in this moment. He smiles back at you, a small, private smile but a smile nonetheless, and then he's opening your door and walking out. He shuts the door behind him and then he's gone, presumably back down to the chapel.

You settle back down on your bed and go to sleep with the taste of him still on your lips.

You still go to confession every Saturday and mass every Sunday, but you see him more often now too, after that night, on days throughout the week at various times, so often that you're certain that Benvolio eventually starts to notice something is amiss, but he never does more than look at you oddly. Sometimes the Friar comes to you, knocking on your door late at night, and other times you go to him, to his chapel and his small bedroom in the back. Sometimes you're on your knees in front of him, receiving something other than communion, and others you're on your back with your legs over his shoulders and his head buried between your legs as he feasts upon you so desperately that you'd think you had the last supper between your thighs. 

The most you and he ever do besides that are the rare occasions when he'll trail a hand up the inside of your thigh and then enter you with his fingers or when he'll permit you to touch him and bring him to completion with your hand. These acts should be enough for you, but you can't help but want more, even though you know these sins are already severe enough and you should be glad to have had everything you've gotten from him thus far. Even so, you want to see him, stripped of his robes with his bare skin revealed to you, and to feel him, to feel his bare skin against yours and to kiss the scars he no doubt has on his back and to feel the solid length of him as he enters you, fully and completely. 

You dream of it happening more than once, and always confess whenever you've had these dreams, in part due to the lingering guilt that you find yourself having less and less of as the days go by but mostly because of how pink his cheeks and ears turn and how dark his eyes become. Usually those days are the ones where he lets his control slip and spends longer between your legs as he thrusts against the mattress or slips his fingers into you as you grasp his heated flesh and stroke.

It's after you confess to one of those dreams, nearly a year after this first began, that things change once again.

"Come with me," Friar Lawrence says, once you've completed confession, standing up and offering you his hand. You take it and stand up as well and then he's leading you into the room that you've come to know is his bedroom, even if it doesn't look like it. The room is small and the only things within are an equally small bed, a plain table beside the bed, a single shelf by the window, and a small, lone clay pot situated on the shelf in which an herb of some type grows. He turns to face you, releasing your hand only to press his lips to yours. You return the kiss, but he pulls away far too soon. There's an odd look in his eyes and you wonder what lies in store for you and him today. 

To your surprise, he begins to disrobe. Usually, you'll just pull his robes up above his waist and he'll just push your skirt up, so this, this is different. You watch as he undresses, his robes falling to the floor and his crucifix placed upon the table, and then he lays back on the bed, his arms stretched wide while you strip yourself of your dress. 

Excitement and something else, something deeper and darker, grow within you as you let yourself look at him.

You stare down at him, letting your gaze trail over him, taking what makes him more than just a Friar and more of just a man. Your gaze takes in all of his bare skin, the lines of his body, and the hair under his arms, the hair on his chest, and then the hair trailing down from his navel. You glance even lower, to where the hair below his navel thickens, and then lower, as you consider your sin and his. This is worse for him, you thinking, because he's breaking a vow of celibacy, though yours, premarital fornication, isn't much better. 

You briefly consider the ramifications in this life of what you're about to do and what you have already done. For you, things wouldn't perhaps be too bad, barring teasing from your cousins and a decreased value as a marriage prospect, but for him, everything would change. Everything would be ruined, and that thought alone is enough to give you momentary pause.

"Go on," he tells you, his voice rougher than you've ever heard it before, and you look back up at his face to see him opening his eyes just slightly enough to meet your gaze. You nod and join him on the bed before straddling his hips and condemning both of you to damnation.

After, later, you wake up alone in his bed. You stand up and stretch, your back making a cacophony of popping and cracking noises as you do so, and look out the small window. It's dark outside, dark enough that no one will be around to see you, so you don't bother to put your dress back on before walking out into the main room of the chapel. You have a feeling that Friar Lawrence will be there, and your feeling proves to be correct. He's kneeling in front of the altar once more, and the air is filled with the sounds of the belt against his skin and the sounds of his prayers. He pauses when you step into the room, staring up at you with wide eyes as he clasps the ends of the belt in white-knuckled hands.

"Go on," you tell him. "Repent."

And so it continues, this cycle of sin and repentance and sin and repentance and...eventually, you start kneeling beside him and saying the words, even if the belt never touches your skin.

One day, Benvolio asks you after you've just walked up the stairs after spending a good part of the day in the chapel with Friar Lawrence, a concerned expression on his face, "What exactly are you and he doing when you're down there all the time?" 

"Praying," you answer with a shrug, and continue to your bedroom.


End file.
